


Give a Good Blow

by wedjateye



Category: Firefly
Genre: Episode: s01e08 Out of Gas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedjateye/pseuds/wedjateye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode Tag for Out of Gas. A Birthday Present for Kispexi2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give a Good Blow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kispexi2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kispexi2/gifts).



  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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"That's weird" Wash muses, fiddling with the dials on the console.

"What?" Simon snaps after an excruciating few seconds of non-elaboration.

Zoe rouses a little from her drowse at the exclamation and Simon turns back to her, half  
his brain still focused on Wash.

"See what's inside." River's voice reverberates tinnily.

Simon glances at her, wishing they had more in the way of blankets on the shuttle. Zoe  
needs to be kept warm he reminds himself and River's temperature was normal when  
he'd checked it not ten minutes ago. Curled in on herself, she hasn't stopped clutching  
her stomach for the last hour. She is leaning against the shuttle door and even through his  
greatcoat draped over her, Simon can see she is still shivering. He wants to wrap her in  
layers. Keep her safe.

"Serenity's heat readout is higher than when we left." Wash sounds disbelieving.

Painful hope flares. Fills Simon's mind with his last image of Mal, standing alone in the  
cargo bay.

"Try hailing again" He hears Wash do so, even as he wonders if he'd managed to say the  
words aloud.

 

  
Zoe pales and barely misses splattering Simon as her wave of nausea reaches its  
inevitable destination. The small lurch of shuttle docking speaks volumes about Wash's  
worried state of mind. Zoe sways unsteadily with the movement and Simon takes  
advantage, lowering her swiftly onto the gurney, overcoming her resistance.

"Stay down Zoe." He orders forcefully. "If you pass out and hit your head you'll never  
wake up again, dong ma?"

Even green and bathed in sweat, Zoe's answering glare vows excruciating death.

Simon has been staring at that possibility, no, certainty, for hours now. He no longer  
cares. Weighing the odds, he makes his decision and reaches for the syringe. A low dose.  
Something to make sure she can be transferred without killing herself with obstinacy.

"Bridge." River gasps as the doors hiss open. "Hurry."  Her urgency speeds Simon's  
heartbeat. "Not long now." The last softer, a faint breath of promise discordant with  
Simon's  jangling nerves.

Later, the smear of blood on the doorframe of the mess is the only detail Simon can  
remember of his frantic dash. Otherwise, he might be convinced of the existence of  
teleportation.

 

 

_Oh God, oh God, oh God._

Simon doesn't even have a God. He's a scientist, believes in proof. But he is praying  
now, with every fibre of his being as he places trembling fingers to Mal's neck. The  
thready pulse, fluttering erratically beneath clammy skin, jolts him back to reality. Hands  
rapidly assessing before he heaves the Captain onto his back, locating the source of blood  
at last.

Wash is frozen in the doorway. Freckles standing out clearly against his skin.

"Help me get him to the infirmary." Simon directs, momentary relief at Wash's forward  
jerk disappearing into annoyance as the pilot bypasses him to go to the console, hitting a  
button..

"Wash."

"Right here." He kneels to take Mal's shoulders while Simon hefts his legs.

Fresh blood wells.

"River! Compression." His sister responds as if Simon's thoughts are hotwired to her  
motor cortex. Balling up the excess length of greatcoat sleeve, she presses the thick wad  
to the Captain's wound.

He should be heavier, Simon thinks as they get to the infirmary faster than he would have  
believed possible. River floats away, slides down against the wall, eyes never leaving the  
Captain's face.

One more thing Simon should have shielded her from. He can't spare the mental energy.  
Stores the look on River's face for later self recrimination.

As he cuts the bandage loose from Mal's torso, Simon realises the effort of carrying him  
has made his hands clumsy. He looks down at them for a disorienting moment. Their  
violent shaking does not match the utter clarity of his thoughts.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Wash head for the door. "Zoe" Simon's brain  
supplies.

But she is not bleeding to death.

"Don't go. I need you."

Wash hesitates, torn.

"He needs a transfusion now or he's not going to make it."

It only takes a  minute to set it up and then Simon is wrist deep in the Captain's innards.  
Hands obedient now. Brain buzzing with a constant monologue – Bleeder… there!  
Arterial judging by the spurt. Clamp. That's got it. Cauterise. Next. Viable tissue here.  
No need to resect. Spleen intact.

A startled exclamation from Wash, a shuffle on the ground by the doorway.

"Don't move!" Simon barks and Wash freezes, the red intravenous line tautly stretched  
between him and Mal. Such a slender thread.

Simon spares a single glance to assess the interruption.

"River, get Zoe a pillow and a blanket. Wash, sit down."

He doesn't need to look to know they will do as he asks. He is in a place so focused that  
every step seems predetermined. They are all caught up in his fierce purpose. It sweeps  
everything else aside.

"'S'ok honey." Zoe slurs. "No more head injuries. When you can't walk…."

 

  
The adrenaline wanes as Simon ties off the last of the weave. He shakes his head,  
wondering how long this day has been already. Day, night… Serenity's system failure  
has reset the ambient ship lighting to that of a lengthy twilight.  Simon has no idea how  
long it is since the explosion tore what little security he and River had found apart.

It doesn't matter. Sleep is still a long way off.

Simon checks Zoe. Scanning and prodding. She is cooperative enough. Her look warns  
him that she has not forgotten the shuttle. Simon ignores the creeping unease that brings.  
Puts it away with all the other unpleasant realities that threaten to come tumbling out.

Wash has managed to keep quiet for hours. Must be a personal record. He makes up for it  
now, pestering Simon with enquiries about Zoe and Mal. Speculating about how long the  
air might last on the other shuttle and asking what will happen to the others if they don't  
make it back in time. He doesn't stop until Simon is about to stick the needle into his  
arm.

"Whoah Doc! I can shut-up, you don't have to be so dramatic."

Simon blinks at him. Finds the part of his brain that can decipher speech.

"You need a transfusion." That is not strictly true. Mal needs Wash to have a transfusion.

"Didn't I just give a transfusion? You're not going to do something wacky and give me  
Jayne's blood or something are you? Because I value my quality time with my wife and  
I'd worry that-"

"An iron transfusion." Simon specifies. "The Captain lost  blood during the surgery. He's  
going to need more. You're the only compatible donor. Even if… You're the donor. This  
will kick-start your bone marrow."

Zoe squeezes Wash's arm and he falls silent again.

 

  
River stirs in her bed when Simon checks on her.

"Closer. Time to clean house. Sweep the floor. Before the mice come out to play."

"Go back to sleep Mei Mei." He kisses her forehead.

 

  
He should try to rest. Everyone else is. Zoe on the bench, one hand twined into Wash's  
hair as he dozes with his head resting against her hip. River, peaceful again. Hair spread  
out on her pillow. As if it were floating on a pond.

Sighing, Simon gets a washcloth and a basin of water. Starts cleaning the blood from the  
Captain's hands. Have to make him look presentable. Wouldn't want to scare the women  
and children. He swipes gently at Mal's cheek. The blood is dried and gritty. Takes  
harder rubbing to remove it. Mal doesn't wake. Lies looking so pale and still that Simon  
puts his palm onto Mal's chest to feel his heartbeat. Silly when the monitor is right in  
front of him.

Watching  his hand rising and falling with the Captain's breaths, Simon notices a small  
lump just below it. Touches it wonderingly. A flash of comprehension. The half open  
drawer. The empty syringe he'd picked up from the floor, puzzled by his memory of  
discarding it much earlier. Simon feels as if ice water has poured down his spine.

 

  
"Alright. I have to insist. The Captain needs to rest."

Simon wants to rest but knows he won't. Not yet. He just wants them all to go and leave  
him in peace again. Thankfully, one by one, they do.

Wash and Zoe are the last – arguing until they finally get Simon's attention. Wash  
doesn't seem to know whether to be afraid or overjoyed when Simon confirms Zoe's  
assessment – she is well enough to go sleep in her own bunk.

"He's really going to be ok?" Zoe nods towards Mal.

Simon no longer feels detached enough to answer. He recalls his certainty, tying off the  
last of the bleeders. The gut feeling that he had done everything that was needed.

Zoe seems satisfied with whatever she sees in his face because she nods and gets up to  
leave, one arm around Wash, letting him think he is supporting her. She squeezes  
Simon's hand as she goes by. Surprised, Simon looks up to see her smile. Maybe she has  
forgiven him after all.

 

"S'really all ok?" Mal drawls the next time he is awake, one hand vaguely gesturing  
down his body.

"One more bullet to add to your collection. I'm thinking of having them all wall mounted  
for you. Something tasteful for the lounge." Simon closes his mouth on his babbling.

"No… s'everyone really back….safe… 'Nara an' all."

Bitterness floods through Simon. He saw the expression on Inara's face when she  
returned, running into the infirmary ahead of the others. Beating even Kaylee in her panic  
at hearing that Mal had been injured. She hadn't believed Simon's quiet assurances at  
first. Spent a minute with her palm resting against Mal's cheek before she could smooth  
her features into their customary composure.

If Mal ever saw that naked look…

"Everyone is back, safe and well. You'll see them all again in the morning."

Mal makes no response and Simon realises he was asleep before the words were out.

 

  
A low chime from the monitor wakes Simon from where he had rested his head on the  
counter. His back protests as he straightens up to look blearily at the screen. Less than ten  
minutes since he last checked the Captain's vitals. But the blinking number tells him that  
Mal's heart rate has gone up a little, rising above the narrow parameters Simon keyed in  
to appease his fear he would fall asleep.

Simon frowns. The surgery was completed hours ago and repeated scans have shown no  
sign of rebleeding. A quick glance tells him that Mal is still sleeping peacefully. Simon  
gets up and pulls the bedcovers back to check the Captain's bandages. They are pristine.  
He lifts one edge a little but sees nothing untoward. He can't keep himself from touching  
the small mark higher on Mal's chest. Feels a sharp ache of loneliness, trying to imagine  
Mal's desperate determination.

Simon rests his fingertips lightly on the Captain's cheek to steady them,  pulls down one  
lower eyelid, leaning forward to check Mal's colour.

"Mmm" Mal murmurs at the contact and Simon freezes.

That wasn't pain. Wode ma! It's not blood loss quickening Mal's heart – he is dreaming.  
A damn good dream judging from that sound. It's certainly having an effect on Simon.  
He is fighting the urge to find ways to get Mal to make more noises, just like that one.

Steeling himself, he pulls his fingers away gently. Mal shoots up a hand and captures his  
wrist, scaring Simon into a quick hissing intake of breath. Before he can exhale, get his  
bearings, a second hand is gripping his vest, exerting pressure.

Simon knows he should resist. Not least because Mal hasn't opened his eyes. He is  
heavily doped and probably doesn't even know where he is; who he is with.

But logic is irrelevant. Simon's existence has contracted to a single thought.

_Oh God, Oh God, Oh God._

The press of Mal's lips against his own is a benediction. Simon exhales his doubts and  
slides into blissful warmth - tongues, teeth, lips melding together. Heart hammering in his  
ears, a beautiful crescendo that matches the flush of heat spreading through his body.  
Breath singing in tiny moans. Mal's tongue thrusting inexorably, taking what Simon is oh  
so willing to part with.

Simon knows he is lost. Falling away from all that is ordered and sensible, plunging  
headlong into the unknown. None of it matters a damn, as long as he can hold onto this  
warmth, this body.

He is pulled up short by a groan. Definitely pain. Mal is blinking at him in confusion,  
brow furrowed. Simon realises he is up hard against the Captain's side, pressed into his  
wound, clutching his shoulders forcefully.

Ai ya! Simon releases his grip and stumbles backwards appalled, waiting for the floor to  
open beneath him and swallow his shame. Mal takes a shuddering breath and searches for  
Simon's face as if in a haze.

"Doc?" Surprise turning to plaintiveness; "It hurts."

The words penetrate Simon's frozen horror. He scrambles to the drawers, brain supplying  
drug names, dosages. Hands closing with relief around the familiarity of a syringe.

He forces himself to look only at the iv line as he injects. Counting for long seconds,  
occupying his thoughts, afraid of what he might see if he turns back to the Captain.

"Well it's a start." And after all that, Mal looks content, the lines on his face easing as the  
analgesic works it magic.

"A start, Captain?" Simon tries to regain  his professional surety, hates the catch of …  
neediness, hope, that chokes his throat.

"Was bothering me." Mal briefly screws his face up, an effort of memory. Mumbles;  
"More than anythin' else…" He sighs softly, eyelids drifting slowly downwards.

"What Mal? What was bothering you?" Simon resists the urge to grip the Captain and  
shake the words out of him. Holds his breath as he leans in, desperate for an answer, any  
answer.

"Never did get to give you your birthday pres…"


End file.
